Pacta Sunt Servanda
by Shotgun9
Summary: Prompt: "AU for Bedtime Stories -- shooting CRD is considered whelching and Sam dies, only he dies spiritually, not physically, and becomes Not!Sam, any old way you like."
1. Chapter 1

Pacta Sunt Servanda (1/3)

**Rating:** PG-13 for swearing and violence, Gen

**Warnings:** Spoilers through _Fresh Blood._

**Disclaimer:** Kripke and Co. own -- I just borrow.

**Summary:** Response to the prompt - "AU for _Bedtime Stories_ -- shooting CRD is considered whelching and Sam dies, only he dies spiritually, not physically, and becomes Not!Sam, any old way you like.

**A/N:** This ended up being a little darker than I'd intended. Oops. In three parts.

* * *

_Stop the car. _

_Stop the car, damn it._

The Impala's headlights cut through the midnight fog, its engine roaring. The yellow lines flash by, their staccato rhythm keeping time with the pounding of Sam's own heart. He can barely breathe, the sinking feeling in his stomach is getting worse by the minute.

_Is that what you want me to do, Dean? Just let you go?_

And then the bastard just smiled and walked away. _Yeah_,his retreating figure whispered softly. _Let me go._

The image is still seared into his brain -- Dean's lying on the motel bed, swaddled that ugly yellow blanket, the moonlight streaming in through window and Sam screams _no_as the bed becomes cold dirt, the ugly yellow blanket morphs into a pack of hell hounds, dragging his brother's still form towards _her_, towards oblivion, towards loneliness and eternity and --

Sam blinks and his brother rolls over, pulling the blanket closer to his body. _Not yet, Dean. Not yet. _And the door shuts with a quiet click.

Smooth pavement turns to rocky gravel and he can see it up ahead, through the tunnel of trees -- the intersection. The slam of the door echoes emptily through the still night air. The gravel crunches underneath his boots and his heart pounds faster as his fingers brush the hard plastic of his Cumberland County Sheriff's ID. He contemplates it for a moment, well aware of what he's about to do -- of what's at stake -- before placing it in the box with the bones of the black cat and graveyard dirt. Part of him hopes that he's got the wrong crossroads, that he'll bury the box and wait and wait in the cool darkness and nothing will happen. The weight of the Colt is tremendous in his waistband -- the power of destruction concentrated in twelve grams of bullet, gunpowder and primer.

Deep breath. No turning back now. He stands up, brushing his dirty hands on his jeans, surprised as his breath mists out in front of him. A slight shiver ripples through his body -- the cold is bone-deep now. The distinct lack of action disturbs him and he expectantly checks each of the four points of the crossroads, looking... hoping...

"Well, little Sammy Winchester." Her voice is like honey, smooth and unthreatening. Sam spins around and his eyes fall upon the petite woman before him, her perfectly-curled, sable hair ruffling gently in the breeze. She looks more like she's headed to an upscale party in her four-inch heels than bargaining for souls on some backcountry road. Except for the red eyes. "I'm touched. I mean, your brother's been to see me twice, but you... I never had the pleasure." Sam sets his jaw firmly and something inside takes over. It turns him cold. Her eyes change back to deep, liquid brown and a sneer tugs on the corners of his mouth. "What can I do for you, Sam?"

The weight of the Colt is crushing. In one swift movement, he draws it and points it at the girl -- no, _demon_.

"You can beg for your life."

A flash of dismay crosses her face as his thumb hovers above the hammer. She collects herself. "We were havin' such a nice conversation, then you had to go and ruin the mood."

"If I were you, I'd drop the wisecracks and start acting scared." The cold battles against the voice in the back of Sam's head that whispers _you're not going to kill her._

She smiles -- the demon fucking _smiles_ at him -- and says, "That's not my style." The gun has caught her eye, and she studies it while Sam studies her. "That's not the original Colt." Her eyes narrow ever so slightly. "Where'd you get that?" The shadow of a smile passes over Sam's face before flittering off into the night. Realization dawns on the demon. "Ruby. Had to be." The image of the blonde's sassy, annoying-as-hell smirk fills Sam's vision, causing him to nearly smirk himself. "She is _such_ a pain in my ass. She'll get what's coming to her. You can count on it."

"That's enough." Sam doesn't care about Ruby. He cares about Dean. And he's not gonna just_ let him go_. "I came here to make you an offer."

The demon is amused. "_You're_ gonna make _me_ an offer?That's _adorable_."

Cocky little bitch, beneath the innocent exterior. "You can let Dean out of his deal right now. He lives, I live, you live. Everyone goes home happy. Or," he cocks the hammer of the Colt and levels it at the demon, "You stop breathing. Permanently."

The demon looks at the gun, looks at Sam and makes a noise that almost sends Sam over the edge... she's fucking _pleased_ with herself and she _laughs_. "All this tough talk." She starts to walk around him and Sam feels trapped -- can barely breathe-- but he keeps the gun on her. "I have to tell you, it's not very convincing." She's smiling and it's driving him mad. "I mean, come on, Sam. Do you even want to break the deal?"

_What? Stupid question. "_What do you think?" The sneer creeps back up on him as she spins around, facing him again.

"I don't know. Aren't you tired of cleaning up Dean's messes?"_Messes? Like, his laundry? Yeah, it's bad, but..._ "Of dealing with that broken psyche of his?"

Sam's breathing quickens. _Yeah, that, but it's more than that, man. You and me and Dad, I mean, I want us... I want us to be together again. I want us to be a family again._

_I'm not okay... and neither are you._

_So tell me, what could you possibly say to make that alright?_

_I'm tired Sam._

_Ever since Dad, all I can think about is how much this job has cost us. We've lost so much, we've sacrificed so much_...

_Tell me the truth. Dean, tell me the truth... how long did you get?_

Shake it off, Sam.

"Aren't you tired of being bossed around like a snot-nosed little brother?"

_Sam, ENOUGH. I'm not gonna have this conversation._

_Why, because you said so --_

_Yeah because I said so!_

_Well, you're not Dad!_

_No, but I am the oldest one. And I'm doin' what's best. You're gonna let this go, you understand me? ... Tell me about the psychotic killer._

Shake it off, Sam.

"You're stronger than Dean. You're better than him."

"Watch your mouth."

"Admit it. You're here, going through the motions but the truth is, you'll be a tiny bit relieved when he's gone." She steps towards him, closing in. He inches back to keep his distance, brain screaming _shut up shut up shut up._

"Shut up." It's clipped and powerful, but the bitch keeps on going.

"No more desperate, sloppy, needy Dean. You can finally be free."

The cold rises again against his growing insecurities, the demon's words biting through his stomach like iron arrows.

"I said. _Shut_._UP."_

"Huh." She's still fucking pleased with himself, but her eyes are wary now. "Doth protest too much if you ask me."

That's it. Sam can't take it anymore. He's breathless now. "Alright. Enough of your crap. You let Dean out of his deal right now."

She's smiling again. He hates that smile. "Sorry, sweetheart, but your brother's an adult. He made that deal of his own free will. Fair and square. It's _ironclad_."

Not true -- Evan. "Every deal can be broken." Take that, bitch.

She turns to face him, mischievous. "Not this one."

His palms are sweaty, his arms are beginning to cramp up from holding the gun at her and he's fucking freezing. And totally over this shit.

"Fine. I'll kill you. If you're gone, then so is the deal." He's ready to do it. She's not a girl possessed by a demon any longer, she _is_ the demon and she's the way out.

"Guess again." _Wipe the goddamn smile off your face. Now._

"What?" The gun wavers.

"Sam, I'm just a saleswoman. I got a boss, just like everybody else. He holds the contract, not me. He wants Dean's soul -- bad -- and believe me, he's not gonna let it go."

_No. Demons lie._ "You're bluffing."

"Am I? Shoot me; if it'll get you off. But the deal still holds, and when Dean's time comes, he's getting dragged into the pit." Sam lowers the gun._ What if she's telling the truth? What if..._

"And who's your boss? Who holds the contract?"

She laughs and saunters towards him, no gun threatening her now. "He's not as cuddly as me, I can tell you that."

"Who. Is. It?" His face is twisted now, angry and desperate.

"I can't tell you." She articulates each word like a death sentence and Sam's face falls, defeated. "I'm sorry, Sam. There's no way out of this one. Not this time."

_No. Liar. She has to be lying... no other reason not to disclose the contract-holder. She's trying to save her ass. She can break it, she just doesn't want to._

Sam looks down at the ground, the fog enveloping his figure as the cold embraces him once again. When his eyes come back up, so does his gun.

The echo of the shot is deafening on the silent and lonely road. The flash of fire and gunsmoke from the barrel illuminates the still night. The girl's head snaps back, eyes wide as a small river of blood begins to pour out of the perfectly-round hole in the middle of her head. She gasps for air as the demon inside struggles, then flickers away, finally losing her balance and collapsing to the gravel with final twitch.

A hard lump rises inside of Sam's throat as he stares at the body, clenching his jaw tightly. He finally breathes. He did it. He killed the demon. Dean should be free.

And yet, the sinking feeling in his stomach indicates otherwise. Sam stands over the body of the demon -- no, the body of an innocent -- for an eternity. He can't bring himself to move. It begins to sink in that, yeah, he killed a girl on a whim. For all he knows, he might come back to his brother lying dead on the motel bed. Or maybe he's only got six months now.

God, he might have really fucked this one up. Why did he pull the trigger?

Instinct tells him he needs to get rid of the body. Bury the guilt. He takes two steps towards the car before a searing pain in his back sends him to his knees, breathless. A wicked wind picks up and flattens the tall yarrow around the crossroads and the fog grows thick and swirling. He tries to pick himself up, but his right shoulder hangs there, floppy and useless. The pain is nearly unbearable.

"Hello, Sammy."

God, he really fucked this one up. The fog parts and a dark, featureless figure stands before him, looking down on his helpless body. If it had a mouth, it probably would have smiled.

Sam tries to respond, but his lungs are on fire. Instead he gasps and doubles over, growing weaker by the second.

"Feel familiar?" The figure's voice is rough and deep. "Oh, Sammy. I thought you were smarter than that."

"Who... are... you?" Sam manages to groan. The edges of his vision are fading in and out and he can barely focus his eyes.

"Oh, me? I've got lots of names. Who do you want me to be, Sammy? Oh, I got a good one." The eyes of his father stare back at him, wide and sorrowful. "_You_ walked away, Sammy.."

"Stop... it."

"You left. You turned your back on this family. _I_ had to be the big goddamn hero and sacrifice myself for Dean's life. Seems to run in the family." His father -- no, not his father -- twists his lip into a snarl the way he'd done in the cabin in South Dakota and his eyes flash yellow. "If only you'd just shot me when I'd asked you. Been a good lil' soldier like your brother."

"Shut UP."

"That hit too close to home? How 'bout this one: 'I made you cookies, Sammy. Come to bed, sweetie.'" Jess' smile tugs at him deep inside and he cries out as another, sharper pain hits the middle of his back. "You're just ripe with material, boy, Pity I don't have more time -- my demonic day-planner is just packed. See, I wasn't really _planning_ on paying you a visit tonight. But then you had to go and do... that." It's changed into a man... just a plain ol' man in a trenchcoat with, glowing, fiery eyes... and now he's standing over the crossroad demon's human host, shaking his head. "It's so hard to find good help these days. I mean, I expected it, but not yet. Not this soon. You were supposed to get desperate first."

"Oops."

"You've been hanging out with your brother too long -- starting to get cavalier about these things. You'll come to regret it."

"Are you... the contract holder?"

The demon smiles and stretches his arms wide. "The one and only. And you, my boy, have just breached it."

Sam's breath freezes in his throat. The demon raises his hand and the body of the host disappears, leaving nothing but a bright stain of red on the gravel below. "What do... you... mean?" The pain in his back won't stop and it's all he can do to keep himself upright as his body demands to lay against the freezing ground.

"You tried to weasel your way out of your brother's deal. It's off."

Cold Oak. The unrelenting drizzle against his face. His useless arm, Jake lying unmoving on the ground, the frosty moonlight streaming down upon his brother and Bobby as the shout of "Sam" echos through the town. The sharp, wet crack of metal against bone from behind him. The blistering exhale of breath as something enters the soft skin of his back, straight through his spinal cord and then up and up and he goes down and down and Dean's running and his vision goes foggy and then blood red and he hears his name and something solid's around him, shaking him, pleading, embracing and a final, soft breath escapes his lips and he's cold -- so cold -- and he can't feel a damn thing and the light goes out and he surrounded by darkness -- sweet, peaceful, painless darkness. And it's over.

_We trap the crossroads demon, trick it, try to welch our way out of the deal in any way? You die. Okay? You die. Those are the terms. There's no way out of it._

God, he really fucked this one up. "Guess I shouldn't... bother... pleading my case, then." The Colt's still in his hand. If the damn thing would just stop pacing, he might be able to get a shot off.

The demon chuckles. "Guess not."

His finger's on the hammer. He's pulling it back as quietly as he can manage, tilting it, trying to aim it at the demon. "Why do you want... Dean's soul... so badly? Surely... we can... _negotiate_."

"I owe you nothing, Sam Winchester. Nothing. No explanation, no rationalization, no mercy. You broke the deal, you're responsible for the consequences."

The gunshot resonates forever in the empty night air and the recoil puts Sam on the ground. Lying flat on his back, looking up at the glittering stars, a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth and he closes his eyes for a moment. It's over.

"That was entirely unnecessary, Sammy."

_Shit._ He lifts his head enough to see the demon still standing in front of him, shaking his head sadly. "But... the Colt..."

The demon laughs. "Really, Sammy. You think that rebuilt piece of crap's gonna kill something like me? The original one might've. Rookie move."

Sam lays his head back on the gravel and groans. God, he really fucked this one up.

"I must say, I admire your determination. Some people might call it bull-headed, but it's really rather endearing." The demon's suddenly next to him, crouched low to the ground, his fiery eyes locked on Sam's. "In fact, it just might save you."

"What?" Demons speaking of salvation -- he's seen everything now.

"You see, Sammy, I was all ready to let you drop dead, right here and now. But now, you've got me thinking. Maybe ol' Azazel knew what he was doing after all."

"Azazel?"

"Your yellow-eyed friend. See, he thought you were 'special.' But you already know that, right? What you don't know is that we demons don't die very often. And when your brother killed Azazel, it was a big damned deal. It just so happens that Azazel and I were close and when he died, his assets transferred over to me."

Sam lets out a hollow laugh. "A demonic next-of-kin?"

"Oh, Sammy. We've got a very well-developed legal system in Hell. The term_devil's advocate_ has a lil' irony to it. Anyway, you were one of his assets."

"Lovely. And just a little dirty."

"Mmm. I always though the whole 'human/demon army' thing was a little far-fetched. You give that much power to a human and it's bound to come back to bite you in the ass. Azazel found that out the hard way. So, I was ready to let the whole thing go, took away the kids' powers, gave up on the army, the whole shebang. I was ready to take Dean's soul when his year was up and -- oh, the Hell I was gonna put him through. There's a special place for hunters down there. Your daddy... well, let's just he ain't sippin' tequila on the beach in Cabo."

Sam takes a ragged breath. He's beginning to become numb to the pain and his brain tells him that can't be a good sign.

"And now, here you are. Dropped into my lap once again. It's like... fate."

"Or unfortunate coincidence."

"I think not. I mean... you shot that host. The one my salesgirl was possessing. Pulled the trigger without a second thought for the innocent life you were taking. I thought you and Dean _saved_ people. False advertising, if you ask me."

"It wasn't like that."

"Right. Of course it wasn't. Sammy, One snap of my fingers, and you're back in the ground -- where you belong. But I'm starting to think you might actually be useful to me after all." The demon strokes his chin thoughtfully. "Yes... I might be able to make this work after all."

Sam doesn't like the creeping grin on the demon's face and starts to wonder if he'd be better off in the ground.

"You know, Azazel was a master at fucking with peoples' heads. You'd never believe what he told Dean right before he died. He told him what he brought back might not be 100 Sam. Now, Sammy, honestly, I brought you back just as I found you -- 100, pure Sam."

"Thanks."

"Not a problem. But," he laughs, "poor, pathetic Dean. First Daddy tells him he might have to kill you, and then he starts second-guessing your every action. 'Sam didn't used to like Bud Light... he's never eaten more than three pieces of pizza at one sitting... he's never killed two hosts in cold blood the way he did in that Ohio basement..."

"You said it to self -- you brought me back."

"I know, I know. But Sam, Version 2.0 seems to have grown a pair. Azazel might've been onto something. He had a plan for you -- yes. But I've got one too and you just might be worth more to me alive than dead. I didn't want Dean's gutter soul anyway -- too tarnished, even for me."

"Don't talk about him like that," Sam snarls and the demon laughs.

"Oh, this is gonna be rich." The demon leans closer and whispers softly in Sam's ear, "You shoulda stayed dead, for his sake."

He puts his hand on Sam's head and he cries out. Its cold... so cold. Unbearable. His chest feels like it's being split open and something's pulling and pushing at the same time and his back arches up and his head's on fire and he yells again and every fiber of his being is utterly _alive_ and yet unresponsive, empty and _dead._

God, he really fucked this one up.

A ball of flame flashes in his peripheral vision and he's not sure if it's him or the demon or both and the darkness washes over him as the dark figure walks off into the distance with gleeful laugh and with a swish of his trenchcoat.

He's gone and so is Sam.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

Pacta Sunt Servanda (2/3)

* * *

Dean Winchester doesn't panic very easily. Being chased through the woods by a werewolf with no immediate means of defense? No problem. Stuck in a graveyard, armed with nothing but a shovel against a roving pack of zombies? He'll get through it. Pinned down on the beach by a nix? He's seen worse. But waking up to find his brother's bed empty, the Colt missing and the Impala nowhere in sight? Panic time. Epic proportions.

So Dean's standing outside the crappy motel in nothing but his boxers and it's fucking cold out and Sam's gone. The car's gone too and that means he's probably nowhere close. Dean growls his brother's name and throws his arms up in frustration, as if that'll make the car and his brother appear magically in the empty parking space before him. The moon's full and high in the sky and it's fucking cold and Dean knows that something is terribly wrong.

The pit in his stomach that's been gnawing away at him slowly for the past few months is gone and it terrifies him.

He stomps back into the motel room and has the good sense to grab a jacket and a pair of jeans before setting out down the road with his Glock secure in his waistband and all he can think of is _We've got the Colt now. We can summon the Crossroads Demon, pull the gun on her and force her to let you out of the deal_ and good God, Sammy really isn't that stupid, is he?

Dean saw it driving into town -- the open expanse of dirt, the water tower, the knee-high yarrow. Two miles later, he's out of breath and decides that boots make for really crappy running shoes. The night's clear, with a little high fog, but the air's still, almost eerie, and when the trees end, he can see for miles. He can see the crumpled form of baggy jeans and a jacket whose sleeves are too short and floppy hair and --

"SAM!" he shouts and he's back in Cold Oak and Sammy's falling and he's sliding on his knees to catch him and his hands seize his jacket and he hoists him up, but Sammy's head's bouncing around and his eyes are rolling into the back of his head and blood's trickling out of his mouth and they slide to the ground and Dean's got his hand on Sammy's back but it comes back red and wet and warm and oh shit Sammy it's not that bad listen and he pulls him close and feels the cold take hold and that final, faint breath escapes his lips and _no Sammy_ but his cry goes unanswered as he buries his head in his brother's jacket because he has never felt so completely and utterly alone.

_Sam_.

But Sam's not dead. He's stretched out on the gravel, body contorted in a way that can't be remotely comfortable and he looks like hell, but he's breathing. And that's all Dean needs. "Sam!" he barks, lightly slapping his face. The Colt's clutched in his hand and Dean tries to remove it, but the kid's got a death-grip on the weapon. "Sam!" he shouts again, rougher this time because, damn it, the kid brought the fucking Colt to the crossroads after he told him it was a stupid, dangerous idea. Apparently Stanford didn't teach him any common sense.

Sam's lips part and his forehead furrows before his eyes open, squinting up at Dean, confused.

"I could _throttle_ you right now."

"Dean?"

"Fuck, Sammy. What the hell happened?"

"I... it... aaaagh." Sam falls back against the ground and Dean's doing his mental checklist: Two arms, two legs? Check. No large objects sticking out of any limbs or vital organs? Nope. Bruises? Not that he can see. Blood anywhere? Nothing. Well, except for the big red stain on the ground on the other side of the crossroads. But it doesn't look like it came from Sam. Which... doesn't bode well.

"Dude, tell me what's wrong."

"Head..." Dean's seeing the story run across Sam's face, despite the fact that his eyes are closed. Questioning, remembrance, puzzlement, realization, agony, regret and he wants to know what the hell this is all about right now.

"God, I really fucked this one up," Sam mumbles and Dean can tell it just slipped out and Sam's immediately kicking himself for letting it happen.

"Fucked what up? What did you do, Sam?" But Sam's sliding away again and his muscles go lax and his breathing gets shallow and the stupid kid passed out before he could tell Dean what happened. Fantastic. Dean lays Sam's head gently in his lap and stares up into the glittering night.

_Damn it_.

He finds the keys in Sam's pocket and pulls the Impala next to his brother's body because he's most definitely not carrying Sleeping Beauty two miles in the fucking cold and he can't believe Sam took the car. Among other things. He dumps his brother's body unceremoniously in the backseat and heads back to the motel, the Colt resting on the passenger seat. He stares at it accusingly.

_It's your fault_.

They pull into the parking spot in front of the room and Dean picks up the gun and checks the chamber. Two bullets are missing.

Wait,_two?_

Holstering the gun, he drags Sam back into the motel room just as the sun is peeking over the horizon and swears to God that he's gonna put a leash on that kid one of these days.

_You shoulda stayed dead, for his sake._

Sam wakes up with a gasp and Dean's looming over him, arms crossed over his chest and looking quite pissed. The sight of his brother turns his stomach and the bile wells up in his throat. He feels like he's been asleep for a lifetime.

"What the _fuck,_ Sammy." It's not really a question. Dean's got the Colt spread out on the bedside table, Exhibit A. The Impala's keys are next to it, Exhibit B. Sam's wrapped in his own ugly yellow blanket, Exhibit C. At least his brother had the decency to slip boots off before tossing him on the bed. Sam groans and closes his eyes as he settles his head back onto the pillow and the bed squeaks as Dean sits down next to him. "You pulled that already -- not gettin' away with it so easy this time. Tell me what happened at the crossroads. Two bullets are missing from the Colt. You're still alive. Something ain't adding up here."

Sam opens his mouth, but the words won't come out. The empty, sickening feeling in his stomach is getting worse.

But Dean's impatient. "Damn it, Sammy. _Tell me_."

He wants to tell Dean. But something else takes hold. "Went down to the crossroads... shot the demon," he croaks, the words not his own, "Nothin' happened."

"_Nothing_? Did she die? There was a fucking _bloodstain_ there. _Two_ bullets missing. If nothing happened, then why were you passed out in the middle of nowhere? Sam, I'm not stupid." Sam refuses to open his eyes because he knows the accusing glare's gonna put him over the edge.

"Dunno." It's not what he wants say.

_I killed her... I breached the contract. Someone else holds it and he should have killed me in return, but he didn't. He's got a plan... Dean, I don't know what it is. But something's wrong. Really wrong._But the words die in his throat.

The bed complains and Sam cracks an eye open. Dean's pacing now, an angry snarl plastered across his face. "You _don't know_? I'm not kidding around here, Sam! Your life is on the line!"

_Too late_. "I don't remember."

"Like hell you don't," and Sam cringes at the words. The door slams and Dean's gone. He stares at the ceiling, tracing the crack that runs from the lighting fixture to the doorway and he tries to say the words out loud, but they vaporize into thin air. His skin tingles and his mouth is dry and his skull feels like it's stuffed with cotton, but all he notices is the deep, hollow feeling in his stomach and it's just _wrong_. He tumbles out of the bed and hits the floor with a thud and notices someone's left a pair of socks under the bed. Crawling on the filthy shag carpet, he manages to slither up the bathroom vanity until he's level with the mirror and crap... is that really him? His hair is greasier than normal and his skin has a disturbing gray cast to it. The circles under his eyes are beyond circles, they're more like hollows. Dark, endless pits. His lips are cracked and they fuckin' hurt.

But it's his eyes that bother him the most. The normal hazel hue is dull and borderline waxen, the whites bloodshot and tired. He stares at them for an eternity, his breath ragged and shallow until -- no.

It can't be.

He claws at his eyes and collapses against the vanity. He must be hallucinating. The red-orange flash of flame in the pupil had to be his imagination... _impossible._ Then a voice, deep like the pits of an endless trench of rotting corpses, escapes his lips -- no longer his own -- and it laughs. It laughs and he tries to whimper, but the laugh just gets deeper and Sam throws himself against the wall and wraps his arms around his body -- its _his_ body, damn it -- and all he can think is _God, I really fucked this one up._

Sam won't tell him what's going on. Dean knows something happened at the crossroads, and it's larger and stupider and more complicated than just "I shot the crossroads demon and nothing happened." He calls bullshit, but Sam ain't listening. He gets moody and enigmatic and, damn it, that's Dean's job. Two more days of attempted interrogation leave Dean frustrated and angry, so he packs up the Impala and his brother and gets the hell out of New York. He drives until they hit Nashville, because nothing gets Dean's brain moving forward like a vampire cat ("A vampire cat, Sammy! C'mon, maybe she'll be like Catwoman. Or Pussy Gallore. God, what a woman..."), but Sam isn't initially amused. He sits in the passenger seat, staring out the window and he still won't spill, so Dean stops asking. Sam may be a fabulous liar when it comes to case-work, but around Dean things don't stay secret for too long. It's just a matter of patience. So by the time Dean tosses the furry offender -- now lifeless, courtesy of two silver bullets to the heart -- into the flaming pyre and Sam's recovered all of his clothes (Such a good sport, he was. Playing bait is never easy.), Dean's pretty sure that Sam's been pulled out of whatever funk he was wallowing in and soon enough, he'll relate the crossroads tale to him.

But he doesn't. It's like Sam's forgotten all about that fucking cold night and the fact that two bullets are missing from the Colt. He cracks smiles at Dean when he tells bad jokes, complains that he's heard this Ted Nugent tape fifty million goddamn times and can we_please_ put something else in the tape deck. He throws a gigantic bitchface at the back of Dean's head when he insists they can go another week without doing laundry. Dean's starting to wonder if that night in New York was all in his head.

They head to Rhode Island at the sign of some honest-to-god vampires -- not of the feline variety -- and when Gordon corners them in a warehouse (the wily bastard not only got out of jail, but managed to get vamped out himself), Dean watches Sam decapitate their former foe with nothing more than a strand of razor wire and his bare hands. Dean picks himself up off the floor and says "What the hell, Sam?" and Sam looks down at his bloody and torn hands, then over to Gordon's torso, then back at Dean and smiles, "Guess I've been eating my Wheaties." Dean wants to punch him. Or hug him. He can't decide.

The Impala grumbles across the map -- a harpy in Virginia, the angry spirit of a ferry boat pilot in Mississippi, a redcap in the Oaklahoma forests. After they take out a roving pack of Jackalopes in Texas, Dean suggests they celebrate at the Little Amarillo Saloon and after their thirteenth (or was it the fourteenth?) round of whiskey shots, Sam's still vertical and Dean's about to slide off his chair and where the hell went the guy who was signing "I Will Survive" on the karaoke machine after two beers? Dean downs his shot and Sam orders another round with a grin and Dean's so goddamn drunk that he can't even pick up his glass and Sam musta dragged him back to the room because he wakes up in his bed in nothing but his shorts and oh_fuck_. His head's about to explode and he makes a mad dash for the bathroom and after he's puked up thirteen (or fourteen?) rounds of whiskey and half a pizza, he stumbles bleary-eyed out of the bathroom to find Sam sitting on his bed, bright-eyed and nearly _glowing_, greasy white paper bag and two cups of coffee in front of him. He grins and asks, "Breakfast?" and Dean retreats back into the bathroom because _seriously_. Something's very wrong with the universe.

Sam's trapped inside the prison of his own body and no matter how he tries, he can't escape. He can't even cry out for help. It comes and goes -- days will go by where he feels completely normal, but as soon as his mind wanders back to the crossroads in New York and the man with the firey eyes and he opens his mouth to tell Dean the whole truth and nothing but the truth, something cold grips his insides like a vice and refuses to let go. When they go after a vampire cat in Nashville, Dean suggests Sam partake in a little seduction and Sam's brain says, "Come on, Dean. There's another way," but before he knows it, he's lying between cheap silk sheets as a positively feline woman assaults his neck and he can't quite remember how he got there. He's relieved when two shots ring out and the woman collapses into a heap of silver bullets, fur and claws next to him. Dean grins at him while he gathers up the kitty's body and says, "Not bad, Sammy. Find your clothes. I'm gonna go burn this sucker outside," and Sam wants to tell him he can't remember what the hell happened, but that voice, rough and deep, hisses _it's no use_, so Sam quietly pulls himself together before he watches the flames lick up the corpse and all he can think is _that should be me_ and the voice tells him _you really fucked this one up, eh, Sammy? Shoulda stayed dead, for his sake _and Sam wants to scream. Too bad he can't.

He's fumbling around in the dark warehouse in Rhode Island and he can hear Gordon's laugh, powerfully ragged, echoing through the empty space. He grips his machete tighter because he's torn between letting the bastard kill him and protecting his brother. It would be so easy to throw down his weapon and shout, "Come and get me!" like Dean did a few nights before, but the voice in his head says _don't you wish? _and then the cold takes hold and suddenly he's doubled over, his hands bleeding and torn, Gordon's head to his right and Gordon's body to his left and oh God, what did he just do? Dean picks himself up off the floor and looks at him like he's some kind of monster and asks, "What the hell, Sam?" and Sam looks down at his hands, then at his handiwork and then back at Dean and he wants to say, "I don't know," but the cold freezes the words in his throat and takes control of his lips and twists them into a smile. "Guess I've been eating my Wheaties," it says and Dean looks confused, but not nearly as confused as Sam feels.

They lose themselves in their hunts, Dean figuratively, Sam literally. Dean goes overboard during their hunt in Mississippi and Sam goes to jump in after him because he can see the spirit of the ferry boat pilot wading towards his brother, an unhinged expression on its face, but the cold hits him hard and fast and the next thing he knows, he's on the shoreline and Dean's coughing up buckets of water and Sam's wet and his lungs are stinging and as soon as Dean can talk, he shoves Sam -- hard -- and snarls at him, "Think you were cutting that a little close there? What the hell took you so long?" Sam tries to explain he doesn't know what happened, but the cold whispers through his lips, "Not so quick to sacrifice yourself anymore, huh?" and deploys Sam's Tried-and-True Puppy Dog Eyes and Dean's face softens, despite the fact that his words are still angry. "Next time a ghost's holding my head underwater, hop to it, okay? God, you'd make a terrible lifeguard." Sam can't believe he almost let his brother drown, and he wants to put his hand on his shoulder and say "I'm sorry," but instead he stands up, runs a hand through his wet hair and heads back to where they left the Impala.

Visions come back, but not like they were before Wyoming. They start in his sleep, but sooner or later, they start happening while he's awake. Trapped in the New York crossroads, the body of the salesgirl to his right and the trenchcoat man to his left. "You killed her," the trenchcoat man says over and over again until Sam feels like his head is going to explode. One night, the trenchcoat man approaches him and Sam tries to run, but he can't. He stands, paralyzed, as the man grabs his shoulders, his fiery eyes searing into the back of Sam's skull and smiles, "You're gonna destroy him," and Sam sneers, "Go to hell."

"Already there." The demon reaches his hand towards Sam's chest and then it disappears and Sam feels the hand inside him, pulling and the demon grins and says, "Feel that? That's me." And Sam screams "NO" and realizes he's in the shower, the scalding water beating down on his chest and he doesn't remember how he got there and Dean wonders out loud why the hell Sam's taking a shower at three in the morning, but hey, stranger things have happened.

A week later, after they exorcise a demon from a lawyer in Arkansas -- too bad the host didn't make it -- Sam's back at the crossroads and it's just the trenchcoat man this time and he's fucking pleased with himself.

"You're doing very well, Sammy. We're almost there."

"Almost where?"

"The grand finale, of course."

"I won't do it. Whatever you've got planned for me." Sam struggles against the invisible bonds which hold in place because he just wants to run and get out of this damn place and never, ever see it again.

"You don't have a choice in the matter. I took _mercy_ upon you when you breached the contract. You should have been back in the ground."

"I didn't ask for this."

"You_did_. The moment you pulled that trigger. "

"My_body_'s alive, but it's not me, damn it!"

"That's the point, my dear boy. You don't miss your free will until it's gone, do you?"

"You_bastard_," Sam spits and he breaks free and lunges toward the demon.

The demon laughs and steps out of the way, wagging his finger at Sam as he hits the ground. "I always liked you, Sammy. A fiesty one, you are. But don't worry; this will be over soon enough." Sam stumbles upright and the demon's gone and he's standing on a lonely road in the middle of Oklahoma and he doesn't remember the last two hours. A warm breeze is caressing the plains, but Sam's still cold. And utterly alone.

The blackout in Texas is different because it's not really a blackout. Sure, he's not the one ordering the rounds of whiskey. He's not the one laughing at Dean's jokes and tossing shot glasses back like they're water and he's a thirsty traveller. He's not the one who grins when Dean slips under the table, but he's sure as hell the one who drags Dean back to the room. He's been just under the surface the entire evening, wondering how he's gonna explain this to Dean in the morning. So when Dean comes out of the bathroom, pasty and sweaty and scruffy and generally a lil' green around the gills, it's not Sam who smiles at him, but it sure as hell is Sam who brought him black coffee and chocolate doughnuts. And when Dean flips around and retreats back into the bathroom, it's Sam who buries his head in his hands and sighs.

_This will be over soon enough._ The demon's words haunt him. Over? Dead? Released? Alive, without Dean? The pit in his stomach indicates it doesn't matter. This can't end well.

So when a Draug crushes Dean within an inch of his life and Sam just stands there, unable to command his limbs to action until the last possible second and Dean's coughing up blood and wheezing while the decapitated monster twitches a few feet away, he makes up his mind. He can't let this happen.

And Sam leaves.

Dean sputters awake the next morning and there's gonna be hell to pay._What's wrong with you, Sam? You stand there with your thumb up your ass while Zombie-Man tries to make me into a throw-rug..._ but his stinging lungs retreat to the recesses of his mind when he sees the empty bed next to him. He's back in that crappy motel room in New York with that ugly yellow blanket and Sam's gone. Not a trace remains -- laptop, duffle, cell phone, all vanished, like he was never there. Dean's all over his phone and when he hears that tinny voice apologizing, "We're sorry. You have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service," he launches the useless piece of crap against the headboard and whispers, "What the fuck, Sammy?"

He doesn't sleep for three days. Taps every available resource to try and find his brother. Bobby, Ellen, hell, he even contemplates calling that Bela bitch and bargaining for the use of her talking board, but he's got standards. By day three, he can't keep his eyes open and it's getting harder for his crushed ribs to squeeze out air, so he collapses on the bed -- on Sammy's bed -- and wonders what the hell happened at that crossroads in New York before the warm embrace of darkness empties his mind.

_Nothin' happened._

Liar.

Sam knows how to disappear. Unfortunately, flying under the radar is different from cutting your brother out of your life. In a sense, he'd done it before. But going to Stanford, he knew he'd see Dean again -- now, he's doing everything in his power to make sure that doesn't happen. And it hurts. Oh, god it hurts.

But something's bothering him on a deeper level -- the demon let him leave. Sam made up his mind and he _left_ and the cold was nowhere to be found. Walked free and clear. It disturbs him. If the thing can co-opt his free will anytime, anywhere, why didn't it stop him? It can't be good.

He goes to Wyoming. He's not sure why... that's where the Hell's Gate opened. It's probably the last place Dean would look anyway. And there's not much in Wyoming -- if he goes catastrophically evil, a few cows might be there to see it. Better this way. Less collateral damage.

There's work to be done there as well. Honest men and women lookin' for an honest day's work. Things to distract him. He gets a job on a cattle ranch out in the middle of nowhere -- the more secluded, the better. For a few months, things are quiet. Sam likes riding the range -- he can see for miles in every direction. Threats don't just materialize out of thin air. He can see things coming. It's refreshing.

Spring arrives and the range comes to life, tufts of bright green emerging from the gray, dry brush. Little bits of virility peeking through the snow. The suns beats down on his face and Sam's just glad to be free of the cold. The warm breeze dances through his thin flannel shirt, gently caressing his skin, whispering softly of peace, safety and amity, of home-cooked meals, soft sheets and well-worn leather, of staggering sunrises and silent sunsets.

Lies. All of them.

Sam's sitting on his horse, watching his herd in the moonlight the night he comes back.

"Howdy, Sammy." Dark trenchcoat. Fiery eyes. His horse spooks and takes off, flying at breakneck speed across the plain. The demon appears again in its path and the animal rears and Sam grabs at his mane, wildly flailing, but it's just not meant to be and he lands on the grass flat on his back. Any pretense of air evaporates from his lungs and he swears his back is broken and if he can just catch a fucking breath --

Ice fills his veins and he looks up to find the demon standing over him. "Missed you," Sam wheezes.

"Awww. I'm flattered, really. Of course, I didn't forget you -- remember? I made a promise. I told you this'd be over soon enough."

"Demons lie." Air. Sweet, merciful air returns.

"I'd be careful tossing that around, boy. So do people."

"I-- I was holding out hope."

"Hope, Sammy? Why, that's the biggest lie of them all."

"A guy c-can dream."

The demon starts to pace impatiently. "I've given you time to make your peace, Sam. Far greater men have gotten far less. But you ran. Didn't even say goodbye to poor, pathetic Dean. He's going mad trying to find you. Time's up -- this thing's starting whether you're ready or not." The demon flicks its wrist and Sam's rendered completely helpless against the rocky grassland and this can't end well.

"Closing time, Sammy." The demon places his hand on Sam's head and oh, God it burns. His back arches off the ground and he groans as the sucking sensation engulfs his entire body and with a spasm, it's gone, replaced by a gaping, empty void. His lips work, but no words escape, just breathless gasps. _That bastard._

"Illinois. You'll hear from me when you're finished there." The demon tosses Sam a satisfied little sneer and he's gone, but Sam feels nothing. He wants to hate him, hate himself, but he can't seem to muster the emotion. Panic should be rising in his throat as picks himself up off the ground, mounts his horse and rides back to the ranch-house.

Sam's quietly gathering his things from the bunkhouse (if he wakes up Dale, there's gonna be Hell to pay) when he catches his reflection in the window. _Impossible._ His eyes glow back at him -- a literal inferno. _Nononono._ He blinks, but they remain. He claws at his eyes until the voice in his head cackles bitterly.

_You shoulda stayed dead._

Sam finds himself in Illinois, having jacked a pickup from that nice ranch down the road. He's standing outside a small apartment on the outskirts of town. A light's on upstairs and the silhouette of a slender woman looks out the window at the shaggy boy standing in the street. Moments later, Tamara's at the door, a look of false hospitality plastered over her wary glare.

"Sam Winchester. What are you --"

"Hunt went bad. I need a place to hide out for a few hours until the smoke clears." Tamara looks suspiciously left and right for any oncoming threats before ushering him inside. They walk up to the apartment and the knife tucked into Sam's watchband feels like it weighs about a hundred pounds.

"It's... been a while," says Tamara as she shuts the door.

"Yeah." Sam hovers by the threshold, wanting to run like hell in the other direction, get as far away as humanly possible and just _end it_, but he just stands there, lanky and relaxed. "You still hunting?"

Tamara drops her head and the glint of the moonlight catches a mournful expression on her face. "A few odd jobs here and there. Issac would have wanted it that way."

"Tamara, I need to tell you something. About Issac." His voice is promising and her eyes spark, so he takes a step closer.

"What?"

"You see --" Sam takes a huge step and quick as a rattlesnake, his knife is up in her chest, plunging and twisting and Tamara gasps, wet and desperate, clawing at his back before he drops her silently to the floor and her eyes roll back in her head.

_No no nonononooo_, his brain screams. But it's useless. He turns on his heel and heads out to Lawrence. Missouri's so happy to see him, but a shadow crosses her gaze as she studies his face, a little harder, a little darker. "Boy, what's going on?"

He leaves her body on her couch and heads out west -- Creedy, Jefferson and Joshua are next on his list. The bodies start piling up after that -- wet scream after metallic cough -- and he heads to Duluth before word gets around that someone's killing off the hunters. Sam pushes the door open to the bar and REO Speedwagon's playing on the jukebox. He can't help but roll his eyes. Some things never change.

"Don't be expecting me to buy you a beer this time." Her voice floats out from behind the bar, deeper, a little wiser.

"Jo... that wasn't me last... last time." _Ain't me now, either._

She pauses and he sees her hand go under the counter. "Christo."

Sam stares straight ahead thinks this girl's got a pretty decent learning curve. "You satisfied? Jeeze."

"Where's Dean?"

"Dunno. Looking for him, actually." Sam slides onto a bar stool and Jo looks slightly annoyed. It's approaching two a.m., closing time. "Had a bit of a falling out."

"Seems to run in the family," she snipes and slides a beer towards his outstretched hand.

"Like father, like sons." He takes a sip. "God, I hope not. Talked to your mom since... you know. The Roadhouse."

"Few times. She's around -- started a new joint in Iowa." Her gaze is harsh and uncompromising -- searching for something wrong.

"Nice to hear she's moved on."

"You didn't come here to make small talk, Sam. You just lookin' for Dean?"

"Nah. Lookin' for you." Sam nearly vaults over the bar, but she won't be fooled twice. She's got a knife in her hand and she slashes at him, hitting his forearms with a sickening tearing sound and there's blood everywhere as Sam knocks the knife out of her hands before locking his hands around her throat and -- good god, he's strong now. Sam, stuck inside himself, wants to look away, but his retinas stay glued to the gruesome scene unfolding in front of him. Jo struggles for one last breath before her cheeks go blue and her body goes lax.

Sam would be dying on the inside, but he's already dead.

"Dean -- it's Sam."

"What?" Dean pulls the car off the road and turns down the radio. "Ellen, slow down. What happened?"

"Jo's dead."

"Fuck."

"The police got a print off... off her throat. She was strangled, Dean. By Sam."

_What the_... Dean can't even begin to form a coherent thought. Ellen's trying her damnedest to keep it together, but failing miserably. "It's him, Dean. It's _Sam_."

"It's not Sam," he insists. It can't be. Sammy wouldn't...

_Save him or kill him, Dean_.

"Maybe he got himself possessed again."

"Dean, you have to find him. That's the fifth hunter this month." Ellen's voice turns cold, almost accusatory.

"I know, Ellen. Look, tell me where you are. Odds are, he's coming for you next."

Dean hangs up the phone when Ellen gives him her location and stares out the rain-spattered windshield.

_Sammy_.

It can't be. Something's gone wrong, terribly wrong. Dean's been hunting for his brother for months now, driving back and forth across the country, but Sammy had vanished off the face of the earth. Like a ghost. And now, the hunting community's quickly dwindling and Sam's suddenly left a trace.

Dean stares out the window and slaps the steering wheel in frustration because Sam's shown up again and something wrong. Terribly wrong.

The Impala's engine roars to life and he turns the wheel towards Iowa, but he's too late.

Ellen's good; Sam will give her that much. Sneaking in the back door had seemed like the logical route to go, but as soon as Ellen hears the squeak of the floorboards, she's all over her pistol and Sam's got a clip's worth of silver bullets in his upper body.

A feisty one, this woman. The bullets burn and the blood is practically flowing out of his torso, but Sam looks down at the damage, then back up at Ellen and smiles coldly.

"Like mother, like daughter. Girl had a lot of a fight in her too." Ellen's scrambling for a second clip, tears streaming down her cheeks, but Sam's not messing around anymore. At least, his body isn't. His brain is screaming at him to stop as he removes the gun from his waistband. It's like shooting cans off the fence outside that rundown motel in Montana and Dad's sayin', "Aim for the middle, Sammy." Sam aims for the middle.

He doesn't miss.

Dean's too late, Sam's made that much clear.

It's a message. Ellen's limp body is tethered to a pillar in the middle of the bar. Like Duluth. The anti-possession charm that Bobby gave them hangs around her neck.

_I don't want to hurt anyone else. I don't want to hurt you..._

It can't be Sam. Shapeshifter. Trickster. Demon. But not his brother.

Dean cleans up the mess and leaves to start one of his own. He's gonna hunt down whatever's got its claws in his brother and he's gonna make it beg.

Then he's gonna destroy it.

"Why... Sam. Fancy meeting you here." A svelte brunette in a low-cut dress tugs on his tuxedo jacket and Sam tears himself away from a discussion of the future rates for the Iranian Rial to shoot her an annoyed smile. The 15-piece orchestra in the corner switches to Strauss' _Friedenstag_ as he raises his eyes to the massive chandelier hovering in the center of the New York ballroom before sighing and resigning himself to conversation.

"Bela. And here I was, hoping you'd crawled under a rock and died."

"My, aren't we grumpy?"

"Well, Ms. 'It's Only A Flesh Wound' is just my _favorite_ person in the entire world." She bites her lip and gives Sam a once over and he knows he's got her hooked.

"C'mon, now. That was just business. No hard feelings?"

"That'll be the day." He spins on his heel and marches towards the bar. He can feel her eyes boring into his back, contemplating. The click-clacking of stilettos indicates she's made up her mind.

"Really, Sam."

"Really,_Bela_. What exactly are you doing here? It wouldn't have anything to do with the Egyptian mummy in the foyer, would it?" He nods towards the array of security guards blocking one of the exits of the ballroom. Bela's eyes follow his just long enough for Sam to lob a tiny white pill into her champagne.

Bela purses her lips and narrows her eyes at Sam. "Oh, Sammy. I wouldn't dream of it."

Sam arches an eyebrow at her.

"Oh, fine. Amulets are in high demand right now."

"I rest my case."

Leaning up against the bar, Bela takes a sip of her drink. "Where's Dean?"

"Scaling the outside of the building, looking for a ventilation shaft."

"I always knew you were the brains of the operation." She's sizing him up, calculating. Flattering, but predictable. "I'll go half and half with you."

"Don't want the money." He takes a step towards her, locking his gaze with hers suggestively.

"Can I offer you... anything else?" He sees her pupils begin to dilate.

"I had something in mind. But we should go somewhere quiet." He offers her his arm -- a true gentleman -- and she takes it, limbs moving as though she's underwater. Sam leads her outside before the convulsions begin.

"Bobby, this is starting to get out of hand."

"_Starting_?" Dean has to move the phone away from his ear because -- damn. Bobby's a little freaked, to say the least.

"Look, Bela wasn't my favorite person in the world, but she wasn't a hunter. He's going after civilians now."

"Maybe he's running out of hunters," Bobby ventures half-heartedly.

"Well, the bitch _did _shoot him..."

"Dean."

"Sorry. Look, I'm coming to South Dakota. Two of us in one place... he won't be able to resist. We'll draw him out."

"You know this can't end well."

"Yeah." Dean hangs up his phone and lets himself get lost in the endless stretch of grassy Nebraska plains. He knows it all goes back to the crossroads. Something happened that night and now a good majority of the county's hunter population is gone -- not that there were too many to begin with. He needs answers before he coaxes the beast into his den and there's only one way he's gonna get them.

After sunset, Dean finds a crossroads. As he pulls the metal box out of the trunk and places his Alabama State Trooper ID inside, his stomach sinks. He should be heading for Bobby's -- he can't be too late. Not like with Ellen. He knows he should have done this earlier, but...

_Look at you. Gone and got your family killed. All alone in the world. It's too sweet. Excuse me, you're gonna have to give me a moment. Sometimes you gotta stop and smell the roses._

How long? How long had Sam been wrong? Ever since Wyoming? Since the crossroads? Since that freaky night that he drank Dean under the table? Well, that explained the high alcohol tolerance.

_It's a better deal than your dad ever got._

Save him or kill him. He quashes the voice in his head that whispers _You shoulda let him die_ and buries the box in the middle of the crossroads and waits. He waits until his breath starts puff out in lazy white clouds in front of him. He waits until he can't feel his feet and the blood has retreated from him fingers. He waits until his lips are numb and the moon is in the western sky and the sun is peeking over the endless horizon, but no one comes.

He shot the bitch. Sam musta killed the crossroads demon.

_Idiot._

He's at a rundown motel in Kentucky when Trenchcoat comes back for a final time .

"Oh, Sammy. I'm so proud of you," he sniffs as he ambles towards Sam, who leans up against his truck, settling in for another monologue. Demons must be very lonely creatures. No other way to explain the endless pontificating.

"I have done _everything_ you've asked me to --"

"You had no choice. I wouldn't get cocky about it."

"I just want some peace. Send me downstairs, leave me in limbo -- anything but this." Sam's pleading with him, begging, but the demon's mainly amused.

"Shootin' the messenger didn't end up being all it was cracked up to be, eh?"

"You don't understand. I've killed people. I've killed strangers. I've killed _friends_, damn it --"

"And you'll kill family next."

Sam feels the color drain from his face. He knew this day would come, yes, but... not yet. He'd rather live an eternity in the fire and brimstone than do what he knows the demon is about to say.

"Dean."

"No."

"Tough luck. I told you this'd be over soon enough. You're done after this. Well, after this and Bobby."

"You're a sick bastard." The words drip with contempt.

"Ah, I've been called far worse, Sammy. And you're a meat-puppet with no free will whatsoever. Lemme ask you -- who seems worse off in this situation?" Trenchcoat snaps his fingers and Sam watches his own pupils turn to flame in the rearview mirror. "You're a monster, Sammy. They're gonna see you comin' from miles away. Have fun and remember: I'm pullin' for ya," He turns away with a swish of his coat and Sam's left with the keys to his truck clutched in his fist. He's sinking -- drowning -- in the icy breeze and wait a second, it's springtime in Kentucky. He can't catch his breath and he falls to his knees as his lungs cry for air and his heart comes to a standstill and when things start again, he's been stuffed into a tiny cell inside of himself, banging on the iron bars that bind him and shouting for release as his body gets in the pickup and drives towards South Dakota.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

Pacta Sunt Servanda (3/3)

* * *

When Dean gets to South Dakota, he knows Sam can't be far behind. Bobby's got the place boarded up like a hurricane's comin' and when Dean knocks on the door, he hears the distinct sound of a shotgun being pumped. 

"Bobby. It's Dean."

Bobby opens the door a crack and whispers, "Christo."

Dean rolls his eyes as Bobby flicks a bit of holy water out of his flask. "Are we done yet?"

"Fine. Bolt the door behind you."

"Jesus, Bobby. What are you expecting?"

"Boy, I haven't the slightest clue. And that scares the shit out of me."

Dean tosses his duffle on the floor and spreads out on the couch. "A couple of boards over the window and a deadbolt ain't gonna stop him."

"What kind of idjit do you think I am? I've got underground iron barns running around the house, salt lines across every possible entrance and more charms on this place than you can shake a stick at."

"Take 'em off."

"What?!" Bobby's eyes go wide and it's clear he thinks Dean's off his rocker.

"I said, take 'em off."

"Have you lost your mind?"

"Bobby, this is our last stand. Either we stop Sam here, or we... well, if we don't stop him, he' gonna kill us. And then he's gonna take out the few remaining hunters and then, who knows. Maybe he starts going after innocents. I need him to come to me. I gotta stop him -- this," he stumbles, "this... is what Dad was talking about."

"You don't know that."

"Yeah? I don't think he's possessed. The charm that was left on Ellen's body? That was a message. Sam's gone off the reservation. I've spent hundreds of miles thinking about this -- I've gone through _every_ possible scenario."

Sighing, Bobby levels his gaze at Dean. "So you're gonna kill him?"

Dean looks down at his dusty boots and traces the cracks in the floorboards with his eyes. "I don't have a choice, Bobby."

"There's always a choice, Dean."

"Yeah? Not here. Not today. Sam's gone already. I can't let him do any more damage. I can stop him. Right here, right now." He takes a deep breath and brings his eyes up to meet Bobby's. The older man's face is twisted and dismal, but he knows this is the only way. Dean comes clean. "I stopped at a crossroads on the way over."

"Oh, God. Dean --"

"No, not like that. She didn't come when I summoned her."

"You sure you did it right?"

"Positive. Bobby, I think Sam shot the crossroads demon."

The silence hangs in the air a moment, suspended like a wisp of smoke over a flame. "Good lord. But... you said there were two bullets missing from the Colt."

"I know. That's what's bothering me. I mean, I know Sammy can be a crappy shot sometimes, but --" Dean's got to stop talking about him like he's still there.

"You think something else came after him."

"It's not as simple as just shooting the demon, that's for sure. Bobby, that night... I felt something. I've had this _pit_ in my stomach ever since Wyoming. Well, up until the night I found Sammy at the crossroads."

Realization crosses Bobby's face. "Shit."

"Yeah. I think the Deal's off."

"Silver lining, I guess."

Dean shakes his head and pulls his pistol out of his waistband, checking the clip half-heartedly. The eternal state of his soul ain't worth the Hell that Sam's going through right now. "He'll be here soon. Let's lock and load."

Sam -- well, Sam's body actually -- pulls his truck to a stop in the forest outside Bobby's house. If he can just break loose, he might be able to stop himself --

He takes out his hunting knife and removes the bandages on his forearms where Jo slashed him. The scabs break easily when his knife pushes down and the blood comes trickling out. Removing his shirt, he locates the six perfectly round holes in his chest and, with a flick of the blade, the streams of red pour down his stomach. He pulls out an old bloodstained shirt and lays it haphazardly over his shoulders before checking to see that his small blade is still strapped to his ankle. Two extra clips are stored in various pockets and his pistol is slipped through the waist of his jeans. Sam pounds at the iron bars as his body determines just the right mix of mud and blood to slather in his hair and smear on his face.

With singular purpose, Sam's corpse stumbles through the woods, twigs snapping at his face, bits of forest entangling themselves in his shaggy mane. By the time he reaches the clearing around Bobby's house, he's a mess. Sam simultaneously screams for his body to stop as a strangled cry of "Bobby!" escapes his lips and he collapses in the middle of the junkyard with a puff of dust as the sun fades over the horizon.

The war starts in Bobby's junkyard and the soldiers aren't taking any prisoners.

"Party's here," grumbles Bobby as he peers out the window. Dean squeezes next to him and spots a Ginormatron-shaped heap outside, twitching in a cloud of fine dirt. He cocks his pistol and heads for the door. "Cover me." Bobby wedges his rifle in the window and waits as Dean inches down the stairs. He gets closer and hears Sam breathing heavily and his body has stilled. Dean gets within five feet and Sam groans and looks over at him, eyes not really focusing. His mouth works around the words, lips cracked and dry and dear God, there's blood _everywhere_. "Dean," he manages to croak before a mangled cry sounds from the very pits of his being.

All the resolve, all the coldness, all the nerve he'd built up since Iowa -- since Ellen -- evaporates and Dean sees a scared and injured little brother lying in the junkyard before him and he falls to pieces. "Sammy," he whispers and, shit, he looks terrible. His hair is longer than Dean remembers and there's a certain hardness to his jaw that definitely wasn't there before. He's leaner, but Dean can see muscle twitching underneath his blood-soaked shirt. But the same liquid-hazel eyes stare up at him through that mop of messy hair, pleading with him _Please, Dean. Help me._

"Shit, Sammy. Is this your blood?"

Sam groans again and curls into a little ball and Dean slides his arms under his brother's armpits and lifts.

"What the hell are you doing, boy?!" yells Bobby from the window.

"Open the door!" Dean practically screams, panic rising in his voice as he watches Sam's shirt get progressively redder. He drags him across the dirt and up the stairs and dear lord he's heavy.

"What happened to 'I don't have a choice, Bobby'?? What the fuck, Dean?" Bobby's pissed and he keeps the rifle trained on Sam as Dean pulls him inside. Dean drops him on the ground and holsters his weapon before leaning over to examine his brother, who's currently writhing on the floor, mumbling incoherently. "Does this look like a serial killer to you? He's about to bleed to death."

"Dean --"

"BOBBY. My _brother_ is bleeding out on your floor. Now, are you gonna stand there, or are you gonna grab me some towels?"

"No. You get the towels. I'm keeping an eye on _him_." Bobby's motion with the rifle barrel might as well have been aimed at an ugly lamp -- he's not convinced. But Dean is, and it takes all of his control not to slap Bobby around a bit. Instead, he shoots him a venomous glare and jogs to the kitchen. As he's poking around in the cabinets for anything resembling cotton fabric, he hears Bobby rattling off some Latin loudly in the other room. Let him waste his breath.

Dean returns to the scene with a handful of towels and some water and Sam's lying still on the floor and Bobby's finishing his chant, looking a little more empathetic than he was a moment ago.

"Anything?" Dean asks as he sets to work cutting the blood-soaked shirt off Sam.

Bobby purses his lips and shakes his head. "Not possessed, if that's what you mean. Sam, what happened?" More incoherent, breathless babbling.

"Holy shit," breathes Dean as he gets a look at Sam's chest. "There's a crapload of bullet wounds here."

"You're not gonna like this, but... I think we need to secure him."

"Does it _look_ like he's going anywhere?"

"Dean, if those are bullet holes, it means he got shot at some point. And that means he did something that warranted shooting. I think that's enough cause to tie him up. You're not thinkin' straight right now, Dean."

"Bobby," Dean tears himself away from Sam and spins on his heel to face the older man, "It has been _months_ since I've seen him. I didn't know if he was dead or alive, passed out in some roadside ditch or turned into a demonic minion. Now he shows up here, half-dead and you wanna -- "

"Dean!" Bobby swings his rifle around, but he's too late. Sam's leapt off the floor and Dean feels the pistol slip out of his waistband and suddenly it's pointed at his head and a strong arm secures itself around his neck. Dean feels the wet trickle of blood coming off Sam's skin and feels sick to his stomach.

"You make one move and I'll blow his head off," Sam growls and it's not Sam's voice. It's Sam's voice torn apart by desolation, misery and despair. It's raw and animalistic and all pretenses of _Sammy_ melt away.

"Calm down, Sam. Let's just -- " Sam's already seen Bobby's finger tighten around the trigger and the sound of the gunshot is deafening in the small room. Bobby's rifle clatters to the floor.

"Bobby!" Dean shouts, but his cry is strangled as Bobby drops as well, clutching his arm close to his side, blood squirting in a graceful spray onto the floorboards below.

"Will you just _shut up?_" sneers Sam and the pressure on Dean's trachea increases until his vision goes spotty, then the peripheral begins to fade to black until the darkness washes over him and he hits the ground with a sickening thud.

Sam's going crazy on the inside. He can't seem to break free, and when his body fires at Bobby, he knows this can't end well. If he can just get back into control...

It's not hopeless. It can't be. Dad did it, back in the cabin. He just has to keep fighting.

But he has to do it quickly. Dean gasps for breath as Sam's vice-like arms tighten around his neck and he falls like a rock. Sam's body picks up Bobby's rifle and cracks him over the skull and he's clawing his way back to the surface, but he needs more time, damn it.

A firm tugging on his arms signals re-entry for Dean. He foggily blinks in the dim lamplight. Bobby's sitting across from him, strapped to a chair, his head lolling unconsciously over his chest. Dean feels Sam behind him, yanking on the ropes that bind his arms.

"Back so soon." Sam's voice is dripping with icy indignation.

"You were... were playin' possum," slurs Dean, trying to regain his grasp on reality.

"Rule Number One was always 'Protect Sammy.' It's still up there, in that Good Lil' Soldier brain of yours," Sam sighs, giving the rope one last tug and Dean grimaces. "Always knew it'd be your downfall."

"Yer not Sammy."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that." Sam looks down at his bleeding chest and flexes his muscles. "I sure look like him, don't I?"

"Christo."

"Oooh, strike one."

"Shapeshifter?"

"Strike two."

Bobby starts groaning back to consciousness and Sam turns his attention toward him. While his back is turned, Dean tests the knots experimentally. It would certainly be easier if he could feel his fingers.

"Oh, Bobby. Dean shoulda listened to you. There you were, trying to _reason_ with him. Stating the obvious. But the boy just can't see past his own blind devotion." Sam pulls up a chair and straddles it, Dean's pistol hanging in his hand lazily. His chest is still red and bloodstains and Dean cringes at the thought that this is his brother's body -- the same body that he held, limp and lifeless in the Wyoming mud. "The others had it easy. I made it quick."

"Why?" mutters Bobby, bringing up his eyes up to Sam's. Dean watches Sam drag his hand through his bloody, dirty hair and he can see the distinct scar on the inside of his right arm. The odds had been stacked decidedly more in his favor the last time he was here.

"Does it really matter?" Sam asks with a low chuckle. "This is gonna end the same way regardless." He palms the pistol, flips the safety and aims it at Bobby. "Nice knowin' ya."

"Sam, NO!" shouts Dean and he hurls all his weight against the ropes as the sharp smell of gunsmoke fills his nostrils and Bobby yelps. The pistol fires again and Bobby's quiet.

"You son of a bitch!" Dean snarls as he flails against his ropes, the chair lying sideways on the floor.

Sam rolls his eyes and his boot connects with Dean's stomach. Hard. "Careful -- that's our mom you're talkin' about."

"Don't_even_... you're not my brother."

Sam sticks an experimental hand under Bobby's throat. "Hmm. Still beatin'. Not bad for an ol' guy. I think I'll just let him bleed out here on the floor. Just like he was gonna do to me."

"You're a monster." Sam rights Dean's chair with one hand and slaps his jaw with the other, splitting Dean's lip. "Save you or kill you, Dad said."

"You shoulda let me die, Dean. You coulda saved me. I was _dead_." Sam's voice has dropped, deep and ragged. Hurt. "This whole mess was _over_. I died honorably -- a warrior's death."

"You were _stabbed in the back_."

"I died in battle. That all we can hope for, Dean. What's dead should stay dead. That's make our job a whole lot easier, wouldn't it? And then you had to go and bring me back -- you sold your _soul_for me, Dean. After months and months of wailing and gnashing your teeth about how Dad did the same for you and 'How's a person supposed to live with that, Sammy?' Lemme ask you: how's a person supposed to live with that,_Dean_?"

"I did it for you."

"No. You did it for _you_. You and that twisted need to please Dad. It was selfish, Dean. And none of that, 'I can't live without you, Sammy' bullshit. You just had to be the hero, didn't you?"

"I had to protect you, Sammy." The words catch violently in Dean's throat.

"Well, a fine job you've done there. Remember the crossroads?" Sam leans over and Dean sees him unbuckle the blade strapped to the inside of his ankle. "The one in New York?"

"Kinda hard to forget."

Dean knows this can't end well as Sam unsheathes the blade and kneels in front of him. "That night, I went there to get you out of your deal." The sound of ripping fabric makes Dean's stomach turn and his eyes are boring into Sammy's head, pleading with him to make eye contact. "I shot the crossroads demon. But it turns out someone else held the contract." Dean doesn't realize how fucking cold it's gotten in the cabin until the full force of the frigid air hits his bare skin. Sam turns the knife over in his hands, contemplating the blade until his eyes come up to meet Dean's. "It was welching, Dean."

"So why aren't you dead?" Sam starts on the inside of his arm and the knife's so sharp, Dean barely feels a thing until the warm trickle starts down his skin and drips onto the floor. He's slicing him up, nice n' slow. Dean sets his jaw and locks the pain up.

Sam stops and bows his head, closing his eyes. His words are almost a whisper. "Oh, I wish I were. I wish this whole thing had just ended back in New York." His head comes back up and so does his knife. "Who's to say I'm not? Pop quiz: what's the most essential aspect of the human condition?"

"I'd love to tell you, but the fact that you've got a knife... a knife making its way through my ribs right now is -- is impairing my higher reasoning skills," Dean grits. Stop. Just... just stop, Sammy.

The promise of a smile tugs on the corner of Sam's mouth as he makes a shallow cut right near Dean's jawline and oh, fuck it stings. The blood gushes across his skin like a geyser bursting through rock. "Free will, Dean. Without it, well, we might as well be walking zombies, doomed to fate's whim. Or, in this case, a demon's." Sam's face is just inches away from Dean's when his eyes flash into fireballs and he cocks an eyebrow at his brother. Then he spins away, head cradled in his hands, twitching. "All that time... and you couldn't figure it out," he whispers.

Dean has, however, figured out what kind of knot his brother's got on him, and thanks to tipping his chair over earlier he's got just enough room to get his fingers over the rope, which is now slick as fuck with all the blood dripping everywhere and what the hell? Sammy knows he can get out of a modified handcuff knot like a tiger hurtles out of a straw cage.

Sam moves over to the window and stares out into the darkness. "I tried to tell you, Dean. But I couldn't. Not that it would have changed anything --"

Dean's free now and the ropes fall away from his body. He immediately launches himself at Sam's back and -- woah there. Blood loss is a bitch. But a sloppy grab at Sam's arm and a sharp right hook gets him to drop the knife. They're both on the floor, grappling for the pistol that's surely tucked safely in Sam's waistband. Dean's back in Springfield, Ohio, grappling with Sam over his money clip, but this time, the money clip's loaded with bullets and Sam ain't Sam. Dean's got his arm around Sam's back and he can feel the handle of the gun, but Sam's fingers find the fresh wound on the inside of his arm and he digs in and it's all Dean can do to keep from screaming in agony -- bright bursts of light highlighting his vision. He rolls across the floor, weaponless, and in a split-second decides there's only one way he's gonna get out of this alive. Dean gathers himself and makes a sprint for the door and he's almost home free when he hears a metallic cough behind him and feels a burning sensation in his shoulder but it doesn't matter because he's out the door and the row of trees that lines Bobby's property isn't far off.

Sam's not behind him when he reaches the leafy shadows, so Dean finds a particularly large trunk to seek refuge behind and collapses on the damp grass. It's so fucking cold out and his body's in a shivering and twitching fit and there's blood _everywhere_. He's got nothing to staunch the flow except maybe his jeans, but he sure as hell isn't running nearly naked in the woods around Bobby's property with a fucked-up Sam on his tail. He tries to apply pressure to the inside of his arm because it looks like Sam managed to nick an artery. His hand ventures over to his shoulder and -- yep. Bullet went clean through. At least it didn't hit any vital organs, but his right arm has been rendered useless. There's no moon and Dean can't see worth shit, but he knows he needs to get back to the house and grab a weapon.

"Dean!" Sam's voice booms in the still air and it grabs Dean's heart like vice and won't let go. _I don't have a choice_. Dean can see his brother's figure on the porch, silhouetted against the interior lights. A shadow and nothing else.

He knows what he has to do. He's known for a long time. He draws up the last of his reserves and chucks a rock as far as he can to his left, away from the house and deep into the woods. He watches Sam's head snap towards the noise and even from a distance, he can see the muscles tense as Sam moves off, stealthy as a big cat. Dean leans his head back against the tree and takes a deep breath, waiting until Sam's out of sight to make a break for the junkyard. The adrenaline's starting to wear off and his body feels like it's on fire. He pushes himself the last ten feet from Bobby's beat-up towtruck to the back door and stumbles through the threshold.

The metallic aroma of gunsmoke and blood hits his nostrils and he crouches low, practically running into the main room. He sees Bobby still slumped in the chair to his right and his duffle is to the left. _Priorities, Dean._ He rummages through the bag until he finds the Colt and checks the chamber. Six bullets. Hopefully, that will be enough. His attention turns to Bobby. Moving his fingers up the older man's neck, he prays for breath, pulse... anything. He's standing a pool of Bobby's blood, not yet congealed enough to be sticky, and it's still pouring from three gunshot wounds -- one in the arm and two in the chest. There's no way -- hold on. The faintest flutter of a pulse sounds under Dean's fingers.

"Bobby." The whisper is broken, waiting desperately for an echo in reply. None sounds.

But the pulse is enough. Dean cuts away the blood-soaked ropes and transfers Bobby to the couch, doing his best to slow the blood flow until he gets back. Using the towels that were on the floor for_Sammy_. But it's not Sammy who's out there and he won't make that mistake again. "Hang in there, man," he says, more for his own reassurance than Bobby's and then he's out the front door, fresh jacket in hand to fend off the cold and an old t-shirt ripped into shreds keeping his shoulder wound from bleeding out. He hears a rattle in the junkyard, the distinct sound of footsteps on the packed dirt.

Dean crouches low, using the shadows cast from the interior lights as cover until he can make his way to the ancient, decaying herd of steel dinosaurs. His finger tightens around the trigger, the Colt feeling awkward in his left hand as another rustle whispers of movement and he knows he's screwed because he's got a bolt-action, Civil War era revolver and Sam's got his gun. He's got to get the drop on him.

_No! No no no. You have to watch out for me, all right? And if I ever turn into something that I'm not... you have to kill me._

_Dean, please you have to promise me._

_I promise_.

Making good on old pledges here, Sammy. You woulda wanted it this way.

A bullet ricochets with a sharp clang off the skeleton of a '69 Charger and Dean hits the dirt.

"You know how this is gonna end, Dean." Sam's voice is ragged and cold. Dean squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. He's only got six bullets. Sam's trying to draw him out.

"You shoulda listened to Meg. Wasted me when you had the chance." Sparks fly, raining down on Dean as the next bullet hits the metal over his head. He slides along the line of rusty cars, wincing as his shoulder jars against something solid. He's got a vague idea about where Sam is... now if only he can manage to sneak up behind him undetected.

"Still alive over, there, Dean? Caught you pretty square with that bullet, didn't I? You're gettin' sloppy... I followed the blood spatters back to the house." Dean peers through a gap and he can see Sam, standing in the same spot where Dean put the Impala back together. Dean can see his eyes flashing, flaming.

Resolutely, Dean stares at the Colt in his hand. _You can't save everyone._

His brother's everyone, everything. He can't save him... he's beyond lost. Monster.

_Take the shot_, his father's voice whispers in his head

_I had one job... and I screwed it up. I blew it. And for that, I'm sorry._

_How am I supposed to live with that?_

_What am I supposed to do?_

Dean levels the Colt at his brother, cocks the hammer and pulls the trigger.

He hears the sharp exhale of breath and Sam doubles over and Dean's heart's breaking and it's all he can do to keep things together.

"Sammy," he chokes and lays his head back against a tire.

Too late, he hears the frantic pounding of boots on dirt. Sam's on top of him like a furious hurricane of fists and elbows and steel-toed boots. Dean tastes iron as a particularly wicked right cross-jab connects with his jaw. He's running on fumes at this point, but he musters up the strength to knee Sam in the stomach.

"Do it," Sam hisses and Dean clocks him so hard that his knuckles bleed on impact. He flips Sam, just like he's done since they were old enough to spar and he's got the advantage now and does the best damage he can with one arm. It's not enough, though, because Sam reaches up and wrenches Dean's shoulder. Stars dance across his vision and he absentmindedly notices the pool of blood that's formed in the dirt between the two of them. He sways, caught in midair for the moment before crumpling to the ground. He gets another hard kick in the ribs, hears distinct cracking noise and almost passes out from the pain.

"_Do it!"_ Sam shouts, his face contorted beneath the gore that plasters his hair to his skin. His hazel eyes are liquid and pleading now. "I can't hold onto it much longer!"

Dean groans and sweeps his leg under Sam's feet and he hits the ground hard. "Not if there's any of my brother left in there."

Sam spits red out onto the ground next to them and takes a jagged breath, a tear parting the red sea of blood as it runs down his cheek. He grabs Dean's hair, knee pressing down into his sternum as he forces him into the ground. "I been gone for a long time now. You'd be doin' me a favor." Sam's eyes squeeze shut in agony and his head twitches violently. When his chin comes up again, his eyes are once more aflame. "You're dyin' tonight, Dean."

Dean rolls left, slamming Sam into a destroyed car, then rolls to the right. He's free and scrambles for the Colt as Sam writhes agonizingly on the ground.

"Shoot me Dean! Shoot me in the heart!" Sam's eyes are begging now.

"But you're my brother!"

He can't do it.

"DO IT NOW."

Somewhere in South Dakota, a gunshot breaks the still night.

Somewhere in South Dakota, a body stills and spasms one last time in a river of blood.

Somewhere in South Dakota, a young man lays down his weapon and rushes to his brother's side.

Somewhere in South Dakota, a strangled cry echoes in the distant Black Hills.

Somewhere in South Dakota, a cold and limp embrace can't fill a gaping void.

Somewhere in South Dakota, it's rumored that the war is over.

But some soldiers fight on.


End file.
